


My Beautiful Johnny

by maccahazza



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Depressive Episode, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Overthinking, Paul comes to the rescue though, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, Therapy, Uh Kinda Sad, Well for me lmao, affirmations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29936313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maccahazza/pseuds/maccahazza
Summary: John is dealing with issues because of one horrible comment a reporter made about him.But Paul is wondering why John is acting so off.They both deal with the problem when they finally communicate with each other about it.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	My Beautiful Johnny

**Author's Note:**

> excuse any errors. and i have no idea why i wrote this ahhhh

John placed his Rickenbaker on the wall, leaning it to rest, not caring to put it away properly. His fingers brushed the headstock of the guitar as he walked past it. The show was over, finally. It felt phony of himself having to stand there and perform thirty minutes’ worth of material while his body was crumbling inside. Each song they performed added to the stress bomb inside him, waiting to explode any second on stage. Sometimes he felt like smashing his guitar onto the ground into little bits and pieces just to release some of the feelings he was succumbing to, but even then, everyone would just laugh it off, thinking it would be some type of joke. Maybe he made witty comments and jokes so often that no one would be worried if he actually cried out for help. Everyone would just brush it off. 

John pushed past everyone and everything in his way. He just wanted to get to the van so that he could get away from the ruckus that was happening backstage, which didn’t help to ease his mind. However, his three other mates along with the driver would be in the van with him, but at least he would have room to breathe and have access to hear the talkative conversations that would take place in the vehicle so his thoughts won’t get overwhelmed with the negativity he puts himself through daily—anything but that. 

He sat in one of the seats but specifically chose one next to a window to mentally distract himself from his thoughts with downtown San Francisco’s imagery. He remembered what his therapist, Dr. Gooding, told him a couple of months back: _“Write down things you see - the people, the trees, the birds - when you feel yourself thinking those thoughts. Okay, John?”_ During that therapy session, he only nodded at that suggestion, feeling like it was stupid to do at that time. But within a short amount of weeks, he found himself surrendering to that solution and buying a journal just for that. And it surprisingly worked. Back when The Beatles toured in Europe, specifically Rome, he would write little details day by day of The Colosseum and the Arch of Constantine, which they would drive by all the time. Or he would note how the people were dressed and how they walked, or the foreign smells he liked and didn’t like. Really, anything to distract his mind. In the end, he had a little over 1,500 words at the end of the tour. George had gotten curious and even questioned if he was writing another book. It would’ve been a hell of a boring book, so he shook his head at his friend’s curiosity and laughed it off. Remembering how well that strategy worked back in Europe, he didn’t dare to forget his journal this time around, and if he did, then he would just buy another one at a local shop. 

“Alright, John?” 

John turned to see it was Paul who was talking to him. He looked down at his shoulder to see Paul’s hand resting there also giving him a concerned look. “You seem out of it, mate,” he continued as he sat down on the empty seat next to him. 

John nodded quickly, smiling a little, hoping it would come off as genuine, just wanting to end the conversation at that. “I’m all in it, don’t worry.” 

Not entirely convinced, but also not wanting to continue a conversation such as this in the van with their driver and with George and Ringo in the back, Paul smiled back and turned his head to the other window, looking out into the San Francisco scene. 

John rested his head against the window and looked out. The van started moving along the streets of the Golden City. It was nothing to admire, nothing to really look at, nothing to keep himself distracted. Instead, his mind moved along to the five-second conversation he had with Paul right now. He looked back at Paul’s expressions and the tone of his voice, and the strength of the grip he had on his shoulder. John started over-analyzing everything as if he were a detective at a crime scene. Paul’s face— Now that he looked back, his face carried the expression of a concerned friend, which put John’s mind at ease for a bit, but then he thought about it: _He’s not worried for you at all, John. Only sorry for you. Sorry that he has a person like you in his life - explosive, unstable, and unlovable—_

_Wait. No._

_Shit._

John combed the hair out of his eyes. The nervousness started building upon his neck, forcing him to wipe it off with his hand. The anxiety started to build up in his chest, such immense pressure that he wanted to get rid of so badly, making him feel like everyone around him secretly loathes him. He rummaged through his jacket to pull out the journal he kept handy. The leathery cover took over his sweaty palms, and he immediately opened it to a blank page. Ready to write, he groaned in frustration when he realized he didn’t have a pen. How the fuck did he forget a pen? Something so simple as that? Was he that much of a fuck up that he couldn’t remember a goddamn pen? 

_Fuck. Stop it, John._

He turned to Paul, nudging his elbow with a bit too much force than needed. “Do you have a pen? I need a pen. Now, please.” 

“A pen…?” Paul questioned as he checked the pockets of his jacket. He smiled as he finally found one, handing it out to him. “It’s blue ink, which I know you—” He cut himself off as his friend abruptly took it from his grasp and started to frantically write in his little journal, which led him to believe that something was going on with John. He’d been acting off since the whole tour started, before that even. It was like with an instant snap of the finger, John had become a completely different person. And Paul couldn’t figure out why this new behavior of John’s was occurring. Maybe he was going through something with Cynthia? Perhaps he’d been feeling bad again about leaving her and Julian on their own around this time. But that was one out of a hundred possibilities on why he was acting this way. 

Paul turned to him again. “John. John, you alright? Really?” 

John turned to him once more, looking him in the eye. “Yes. I’ve told you that already,” he responded with a bit more spite through his gritted teeth. With one last look, the older man stuffed himself back into his journal, choosing to ignore Paul’s stares that were full of criticism and judgment, probably thinking of what a horrible human being he was. Paul was thinking that he could find a better partner, a better man who could write lyrics better than John, who could come up with better melodies than him—someone ultimately _better_ than him. 

He shifted his body and attention to the window. He was looking out at what he saw. Everything was going by so fast that he couldn’t keep his attention on one thing for quite long, but he managed. His hand started moving along the paper, noting what he briefly observed. 

_Red mustang._

_An older woman with a stroller that probably has a crying baby in it._

_Man in a yellow suit that looks sad (that makes two of us)._

_Buildings, buildings, buildings. They’re tall, and there are lots of them._

_Women. They’re beautiful—all of them._

_Men. Yeah, they’re alright too._

John didn’t know what else to write. It started to become all the same—everything he was looking at. The more he looked at the scenery, the blander it appeared. San Francisco, known for such bright, vibrant colors, the liveliness of it all was beautiful, but he no longer saw that. Everything and everyone he saw became a blur and an empty one. One filled with loneliness, so much of it that he couldn’t even feel himself. It was scaring him what his mind could do. He wanted it to stop. How could he make it stop? 

He emitted a heavy sigh, John, hoping all of his degrading thoughts and feelings would leave with that bundle of air. He rested his head against the cushion of the seat, closing his eyes, hoping that he could transcend himself into another reality other than this one. In the reality he was dreaming of, everyone loved him, everyone cared for him, and everyone worried for him, even if there was nothing to worry about. And there was nothing that could harm or hurt him. He could magically float in an ocean that glowed a beautiful green and just enjoy the sunshine without anything bothering him. 

While he was in that state of imaginary bliss for a second or two, he felt something rest against his leg. He opened his eyes and looked down, seeing Paul’s hand lying on his thigh. John then glanced to his right to see Paul was looking out the window. The older man’s lips curved into a soft smile as he looked down again, instantly submitting himself to the warmth Paul brought him, making him feel sane. 

Continuing to feel Paul’s warmth—holding onto that bit of normality—he closed his eyes once more, attempting to daydream of that beautiful, false reality again. But he noted something to himself before he fully entered: _Don’t forget Paul._

John felt himself waking up, slowly dissociating himself from the dream he wished to stay in instead. He opened his eyes, second by second, and quickly observed his surroundings. Noticing he wasn’t inside the van anymore, he realized he was in a room - a hotel room. He must’ve not remembered arriving at the hotel nor be taken out of it as well. Had someone woken him up, and he physically walked up here? That could be the only explanation because he was far too heavier than anyone else to lift him and carry him inside. Besides, that would be too embarrassing. 

He looked around the room for anyone else, but no one else was there, which was weird. He always shared a room with Paul, if they all had the options for two rooms, but there was only one bed in the room. 

John didn’t know what to do with himself. He thought about going out into the hallway to find someone else or even down to the lobby to find his friends. He was feeling a bit lonely; he didn’t want to be lonely, not right now. But as soon as he was about to stand up from the bed, he heard distant chatter. It didn’t even sound like a regular, everyday conversation. It sounded hushed and as if whoever was talking was whispering. The voices were coming from the next room, so he lifted himself slowly from the bed and tip-toed over to the wall where the noises were emanating, not wanting to make noise himself. He leaned closer and put his ear against the cold wall, hearing a weird buzzing noise between the walls and murmurs of men talking. Probably the boys, John thought to himself. 

The first voice he heard was coming from Paul. “I-I don’t know,” he said quietly. “He’s been acting strange as if he’s in his own little world. I can’t seem to have a normal conversation with him lately.” 

John’s face furrowed in confusion, wondering if what his friend was saying was about him. 

“That’s just our John,” Ringo added. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. I’m sure it’s nothing. Maybe something’s happened with Cyn.” 

Now John’s face contorted into a furious expression. What the hell did these guys have any business in talking about him behind his back? Especially Paul? If Paul was so worried about him, then why didn’t he come to _him_ about it? God. It made him feel like some kind of fucking pity party. Since Paul’s brought this shit up, now the rest of his mates will look at him differently. They’re going to think differently about him. Now they may not even want to be near him. Maybe they’ll see what Paul sees and think he’s strange too. 

Fuck Paul for bringing this up. It shouldn’t have been thought of in the first place. John bit his lower lip as he slowly walked away from the wall, his thoughts rendering on. 

It’s… it’s not even Paul’s fault, now that John thought about it. If he would have acted normal from the start, acting as if nothing was wrong with him, then Paul wouldn’t have any concerns for him— not concerns - judgments. Judgments filled with ridicule and disgust. Paul was disgusted with him, so disgusted by him that he had to know if any of the others thought so too. What if he brought this up with Brian? Or Martin? What if Brian is in there with them right now? What if they want to kick him out of the band? What if they do it right now? Tonight might be the last night he would ever be considered a Beatle. 

_You’re such a fuck up. You ruin everything. Why do you ruin everything? Everyone hates you. No one loves you. You’re just a pity. They only want to be around because they feel sorry for you._

_Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._

_What’s wrong with you—_

“John? John, what’s the matter?” 

John turned around to see Paul standing there. And he was wearing this particular look on his face. Any stranger would take a look at him and say it’s full of worry and concern. But John knew better. There was only condemnation in those hazel eyes. 

“How about you ask Ringo and George? And even Brian? I just know you love talking behind my back,” John snarled, coming into his defensive mode. If Paul were going to try to bullshit him, then he would be one step ahead of him.

“You… You heard that? I thought you were sleeping.” Paul pursed his lips, sweat forming on his forehead. “John, it wasn’t anything bad. I was just expressing my concern about you. You just seem a bit-”

“Fucked up?” John finished for him. “I seem disgusting? Do all of you think that? Is that what you lot were gossiping about in the other room?” 

Paul shook his head in disbelief, not believing that his John was saying any of this about himself. Everything he was questioning was not true. It was far from it. It immediately reminded him of what happened with John when Julia died in 1958. He became vulnerable and depressed, pushing everyone who cared for him out of his radar, leaving himself alone. It wasn’t until a few months later that Paul had pushed himself back in his life, not letting himself be shut out. When they rekindled, that was the moment when John made him promise never to leave him. And he did promise. And he meant it.

But John apparently forgot what Paul promised. 

“We weren’t talking about that! And we never have! I told you, I was only expressing my worries about you. You haven’t been acting the same, John. You and I both know it.” Paul took a step closer to John, coming off as gentle as he could. “I know something is going on with ya, and I wanna help you. Let me help you.” 

“You wouldn’t understand.” 

“Try me,” Paul challenged. 

John felt the need to burst out sobbing, but he held it in, not wanting to come off as more crazy. Instead, he accepted Paul’s challenge and started to roam around the room for one of his bags, one specific bag. Once he spotted it, he grabbed it and reached his hand inside to grab the newspaper he was looking for. He finally found it and walked toward Paul to hand it over to him. John didn’t say anything and decided to see how he would act instead. 

John watched as Paul’s eyes wandered over the newspaper, and finally, his eyes widened as he realized what article this was. 

Paul looked up, his eyes shining with more concern as his eyebrows wrinkled. “John. We talked about this. We both decided— All _four_ of us decided it was bullshit, an untrue statement from a shitty journalist who wanted their fifteen minutes of fame.” 

“Well, they were right. I am fat. They should’ve added in ‘Ugly Beatle’ too. God knows they wouldn’t have been far off.” 

Paul, right in front of John’s eyes, tore the newspaper into shreds. The little bits and pieces of paper fell onto the floor. John wanted to reach out and stop him, yell at him and tell him to stop. But he was too shocked to do anything. 

“I can’t believe you kept that bullshit article all these months,” Paul uttered, a bit out of breath from tearing that stupid article apart. “Why did you keep it?” 

John stood there, still looking at the torn apart newspaper. He finally shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know. I couldn’t get rid of it. It was true, and I couldn’t throw it away.” 

“Oh, Johnny…” Paul sighed and walked up to him. “You know you’re not those things. You’re not fat, and you’re not ugly. You’re beautiful, hm? You’re the most beautiful man I know.” 

John felt Paul’s hand brush against his cheek. It was such a foreign feeling of being touched, hinted with a pretty amount of affection. He’d gotten it from Cynthia and any other women he slept with while on tour, but it was different with Paul. It was warm and comforting, and if he could, he would request he would do this all day. The feeling was unlike anything else, so he nuzzled himself further into Paul’s hand, wanting to feel more than just his touch. He wanted to feel all of Paul’s love - genuine love from his partner. But he didn’t know if he ever would. He didn’t know if he would ever get to experience Paul. Paul’s gentleness, softness, his kisses, his long-lasting hugs, _him_. Paul, as of right now, seemed to be the only thing John wanted to breathe.

But some days it wasn’t enough. Those days where it wasn’t enough were the days he wanted Paul to be his lover. Where he wanted Paul to hold him like a child and sing him tender love songs, comforting him and telling him everything would be okay. 

The more he thought of the things he couldn’t have, he felt his water and soon came out the sobs. He brought his hands up to his face, burying himself deep into the darkness and weeping as if someone died. He could easily say he died, but he wasn’t sure of that yet. 

Soon he felt arms wrap around him. They were Paul’s. And they were strong, and again, comforting. So John let himself have this, and he hugged back and cried into his neck, tear after tear. 

“P-Please don’t hate me, don’t hate m-me, Paul,” John cried out, his tears soaking his friend’s skin. “Don’t leave me. I-I don’t wanna be alone…” 

Paul rubbed his back, comforting him as if he were a little boy. Sometimes it felt like John was, and not in a bad way, but in a way where he needed to be continuously loved. And he could easily do that for John if he didn’t shut him and everyone else out when he needed it the most. “Johnny, I would never hate or leave you. We all love you. You’re hard _not_ to love. And I’ll always be here for you, whether you like it or not, sweet.” 

John’s sobs calmed down, only sniffling here and there, but he was better, accepting the reassurance Paul was giving him. He finally lifted his head and looked at the younger. He knew he looked like shit right now; his eyes probably blood-shot red with tears still falling from his eyes. But as he was about to wipe them, Paul beat him to it. 

“I wish you could see what we _all_ see, love,” Paul whispered as he ran his finger along John’s face, tracing the remarkable features of this man, also wondering why John couldn’t see the beauty he was. Everyone else could see it, but why couldn’t he? Okay. Maybe _that_ was a stupid question to ask himself. It would be more questionable if John wasn’t so insecure about himself. His childhood, full of disappointment and abandonment. Now he was going through a depressive episode all because of some fucking reporter who had dared call his John “fat”. Fuck them. Paul betted they were an ugly piece of shit who only earned their living by being an irritant to the world. 

As his finger rested on the tip of John’s nose, he gently whispered: “Be easy on yourself, yeah? I know the thoughts you think. I know you better than anyone… _I think._ I wan't— _need_ you to start loving yourself just as much as I do. Okay, love? It kills me more than you know to see how you treat yourself. You deserve real love, even from yourself. Hm? Can you do that for me, Johnny?”

John loved hearing each affirmation that came out of Paul’s mouth, comforting the void that was so deep inside of him. Though it was hard for John to believe him sometimes, right now, he did. And a smile snuck across his lips, nodding slightly as he looked into Paul’s eyes. “Okay.” 

“And if… if you need to talk to anyone, I’m here, okay? I’ll always be here.” 

There hadn’t been a moment in John's life where he felt so succumbed to love. What did he ever do to deserve a Paul? 

“T-Thank you.” 

Paul smiled affectionately, wanting to rub as much tenderness as he could on John. “I think we should rest now. We’ve got lots to do tomorrow.” 

John agreed. He walked past Paul, making his way to their shared bed, thinking of the conversation they just had. It was different and… _different_. So different that he couldn’t explain how he felt about it. The last time Paul had spoken to him in such a parental, nurturing way was so long ago. And his touches— _so gentle_. John wanted to lift his hand and touch all the places where Paul had caressed him; he smiled just thinking of it. Was it weird that John wanted him to do that to him again? Maybe. Maybe not. 

John felt too lazy to shower, so instead, he quickly stripped off his clothes, leaving him only in his underwear. The sheets looked comfy but were even more heavenly and soft when he slipped under them, sinking himself into the bed, allowing himself to have this one moment where he felt, for once, good. The pillow was supporting his head, and the blanket was giving him warmth. It felt nice, but something was missing. 

“Paul?” 

“Yes, Johnny?” Paul responded, looking into John’s innocent eyes as he was removing his clothing. 

“Could you… could you hold me tonight?” 

Paul chuckled a little, grinning adoringly at the beautiful sight before him. He slipped in the sheets and moved closer to John. “You don’t have to ask me twice,” Paul responded, as he managed to slip his arms around John, holding his frame comfortably against him. 

Paul kissed the top of John’s head before saying: “Sweet dreams, My Beautiful Johnny.” 

**Author's Note:**

> i wish i had a paul lmao


End file.
